


How Could Anybody Have You, And Lose You, And Not Lose Their Mind Too?

by mountainsbeyondmountains



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1950s, 1960s, Alternate Universe, American Politics, F/M, lyanna is distantly related to the Starks in this, this is what happens when you spend 3 hours reading about the Kennedy curse, title from st. vincent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 04:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17822201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsbeyondmountains/pseuds/mountainsbeyondmountains
Summary: "I guess what they say is true. The Starks truly are cursed."





	How Could Anybody Have You, And Lose You, And Not Lose Their Mind Too?

**1952**

She finds him in the ballroom.

It shouldn't come as such a surprise, Sansa thinks. That's where the party was held, after all. But the party has mostly fizzled out by this time of night. The musicians have packed up their instruments and gone home and everyone in attendance has found their way to one of the many guests bedrooms in Winterfell (though not necessarily the bed they ought to be sleeping in). The ballroom is almost empty now; the floors are littered with glittering debris, the tables covered in empty glasses, and a few balloons were set free and now float near the ceiling. Sansa knows that Arya and Bran will make a competition out of shooting them down with their pellet guns tomorrow.

The dogs are wandering around, too, licking up whatever food has fallen to the ground. They were supposed to remain locked up in the library- no matter how hard Sansa begged to let them roam free, Mrs. Mordane had sniffed that it just wasn't seemly to have such _beasts_ a lady's debut- but Rickon had snuck out of his bedroom and let them out sometime after midnight.

Lady is by Sansa's side now, her tail happily whipping against the skirt of her white debutante gown. Sansa knows that it's late, and she ought to be in bed, but she doesn't want to sleep. Not even the most perfect dream could compare to tonight. She'd worn her mother's pearls, passed down to Tully daughters for generations, and long white gloves buttoned up past her elbows. Every slot on her dance card was filled, and she'd danced until her feet ached. She'd drank champagne for the first time, and felt like some sort of flame had been lit in her chest, filling her whole body with the most wonderful glow. Everyone keeps saying she's a woman now, a true lady of society, and if this is what being a woman is like, then Sansa doesn't understand why her mother is always telling her not to be so eager to grow up.

Sansa has her eyes closed, and is trying to commit every memory of her waltz with Joffrey Baratheon into her memory- how many girls could say that the _president_ and his family had attended their sixteenth birthday party?- when she hears footsteps echo through the empty ballroom. At least, what she'd _thought_ was an empty ballroom. Sansa's eyes fly open, and the scream in her throat turns into a sigh of relief when she sees that it's not an intruder, but instead her cousin.

Well, third cousin, two or three times removed, or something like that.

"Jon Snow," Sansa says, one hand splayed over her rapid-fire heart, "You nearly scared me to death. Tell me, do they teach you to sneak up on young ladies at Castle Black?"

He's wearing a suit that looks like it might have fit well once, before his last growth spurt, and his hair wants cutting, but there's something even more surprising about Jon than his unexpected arrival in the ballroom. It's been years since Jon went away to the military academy where Uncle Benjen teaches, and this is the first time Sansa's seen him since then. She's startled to find that somewhere along the way, Jon became handsome.

"Most of the curriculum is concerned with how not to get killed," he says to her.

"Well, if you caught Arya by surprise like this, she'd probably stab you with the sharpest object within arm's reach."

"You're not wrong. Tell me, did your mother manage to get her into a dress this evening? I know Arya was determined to put up a fight about that."

"The only person more stubborn than my sister is my mother," Sansa says. "I thought Arya cleaned up nicely. But you saw, you were at the party."

Jon focuses intently on petting Lady as he replies, "No, I wasn't, actually. It was your mother's idea. She thought that if I was in attendance, the president might become upset."

 _Of course,_ Sansa thinks. Once upon a time, Robert Baratheon had been engaged to Jon's mother, back when he was challenging Rhaegar Targaryen for the California senate seat. Robert ended up winning the election, but Rhaegar had won the girl. He and Lyanna ran off on an impulse that always seemed terribly romantic to Sansa, when she heard the story (eavesdropping through the keyholes of locked doors). Rhaegar and Lyanna died young, leaving Jon an orphan. Robert went on to marry Cersei Lannister, who everyone agreed was the most beautiful First Lady to ever grace the White House. But rumor had it that Robert never got over Lyanna- and surely there was some truth to the gossip, for the first thing Robert did upon arriving at Winterfell was visit the old Stark family plot to lay flowers on Lyanna's grave.

Sansa's unsure how to respond to Jon's revelation. It was Mrs. Mordane's job to arm her with the appropriate courtesies for every situation, but Mrs. Mordane liked to pretend they lived in a world where no engagements were ever broken, and babies were only ever born on the right side of the sheets. So Sansa says the only thing that comes to mind: "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"It's not your fault." Jon shrugs, then tries a brittle joke. "I wouldn't be much fun at a party anyway. I'm no good at dancing."

Sansa seizes onto this attempt at levity, and teases, "Uncle Benjen doesn't give dancing lessons at Castle Black?"

"It's not like I'll need to do the foxtrot with enemy soldiers."

"You'll have to go on leave sometimes, and then the pretty girls will be lining up with dance with you. But it's all right. I'll teach you," Sansa decides. She crosses the ballroom, and sets one of her favorite records onto the phonograph. She keeps the volume low, as to not wake up the whole house. When she sees Jon still standing frozen on the other side of the room, she beckons him over.

He comes closer. His smile is bashful, like he can't quite let himself surrender to happiness. "You can't be serious."

"I am _deadly_ serious," Sansa tells him. She holds out her arms. "Come on, let's get to it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Well, first you bow and I curtsey, and then you take my hand in yours."

Jon does a stiff little bend, and Sansa dips in the graceful curtsy that Mrs. Mordane made her practice a thousand times. Then she leaves her gloved fingers with Jon's calloused ones. She tells him, "I'll put my other hand on your shoulder, while you put yours on my back-"

His hand is warm on her bare skin, yet Sansa shivers when he touches her. "Like this?" Jon asks.

"Slightly lower."

He shifts his hand accordingly. Then, without any instructions about how to move his feet, he begins to lead her into the dance. He seems already familiar with the steps, and executes them almost effortlessly. "Jon Snow," Sansa realizes aloud, "You know how to dance, don't you?"

"Never said I didn't."

He's close enough that Sansa can feel his breath as he speaks, and can smell the liquor there. It's not like she can judge him though, for she's not quite herself either, is she, what with all the champagne she’s had. It occurs to Sansa that this is hardly a ladylike situation to find herself in. What would Mrs. Mordane think if she knew Sansa was dancing alone with a strange man? _Jon's not a stranger,_ Sansa reminds herself. There's nothing scandalous about this; it's no different than dancing with Robb.

Except Jon's not her brother. He's her... third cousin, two or three times removed.

"You're good at this," Sansa says. "You must have paid attention during lessons."

"That's why I graduated top of my class."

"Oh, well then, it's a _privilege_ to dance with you."

"Precisely- I'll be second lieutenant when they ship me out."

"But that could be ages from now."

Jon extends his arm to give her space to twirl. "Actually, I'm shipping out in two weeks."

Sansa stops spinning, and places a hand on Jon's chest to steady herself. She looks at him, tries to imagine him in fatigues instead of an ill-fitting tuxedo. "They're sending you off to fight?"

"Well, yes. There's a war on, you know."

"Of course I know there's a war, I hear about soldiers dying on the radio every week. I can't believe you're getting sent halfway around the world- you only just got home!"

Jon's smile wanes. "This isn't my home," he says. He gestures around the ballroom, drawing attention to the chandelier, the empty bottles of champagne, Sansa's pearls.

"What are you talking about? The Starks have lived in Winterfell since we stepped off the boat!"

"I'm not a Stark."

The dogs- Sansa had forgotten about them while she was dancing- the dogs creep closer, circling around them. The runt of the litter, Ghost, stands by Jon's side while Lady slinks around Sansa's legs. Summer, Nymeria, Shaggydog, and Grey Wind pace in the no-man's land between. "You're a Stark," Sansa says. "You are. Just-- two or three times removed, that's all."

Jon's laugh is fractured. "Two or three times removed."

"We'll miss you. You know that, right?"

"You'll forget about me in no time."

"No. _No,_ Jon, you're wrong-"

"You all seemed to have plenty of fun without me tonight. You'll be fine."

Sansa doesn't know how to make him listen to her. So her feet carry her forward,  and she catches his scowling face in her hands and kisses him. He goes stiff with shock before he softens- but he _does_ soften. His lips part; she can taste the liquor on his tongue. His hands find her waist, where they rest like they were meant to hold her. He's a good kisser, as surprisingly good a kisser as he is a dancer, but just as Sansa begins to savor it, Jon pulls away. Without another word, he lets her go and strides away, leaving her alone amidst the ruins of the party.

  
**1962**

He finds her in the portrait gallery.

After the burial- black-gloved hands tossing winter roses onto the mound of fresh earth, collars turned up against the cold, clouds of white breath released as condolences were murmured- they'd trudged through the sodden forest back to the estate. Once they were inside, it seemed like Sansa had disappeared the moment Jon turned his back. It was like she was one of the many ghosts who surely haunt Winterfell. 

Jon wanders through each abandoned room, searching for her. It's eerie; all the furniture is draped in moth-eaten sheets, all of the windows are boarded up, and all the floors are coated in dust. Jon can hear small creatures burrowing through the walls, and skirting around corners as he makes his way. He can just imagine Catelyn Stark's dismay, to see the house in such disarray. 

He passes through the kitchen, where they used to tiptoe around after bedtime, trying to sneak a midnight snack. Ned would always catch them- he worked late, most nights- but more often than not he'd end up joining them, and make them promise not to tell Catelyn. He passes through the dining room, sees the table where Catelyn used to keep fresh flowers. He and Robb and Theon had carved their initials into the underside of that table when they were fourteen, and when Jon brushes his fingers against the wood, he can feel the markings:  _R.S. J.S T.G. 1948._ He passes through the living room, where pine needles from the last Christmas tree are still stuck on the carpet and ancient ashes linger in the hearth. He climbs up the stairs, trailing his hand over the bannister that they all used to slide down every morning, and passes the window seat where Sansa could often be found curled up with some romance novel. 

He passes through the bedroom Bran and Rickon shared; he nearly stumbles over the tracks of train set that still sprawls across the floor, and he snaps a piece of a long-abandoned jigsaw puzzle into place. He passes through Robb's room. The cot meant for Theon- he used to stay over at Winterfell more nights than he went home- is still in the corner, though Jon knows that Theon never slept in it. Robb's bed was always wide enough for two. He passes through Sansa's room, with its pale pink walls covered in posters of movie stars, and Arya's room, with its bed unmade and darts clustered around the bull-eye's of the board. He only dares peer into the bedroom that Ned and Catelyn shared- he was always forbidden from that room when he was younger, and even now, something stops him from trespassing. 

Jon's not exactly sure when they decided to seal up the house, or even who made that decision. It couldn't have happened when Ned died, or even when Robb got married. No, it must have been after. Probably around the same time that Bran and Rickon were sent to boarding school up north. That made sense. That was around the time that he'd stopped receiving letters from any of the Starks. Even from Arya. That must have been when they truly gave up.

Eventually, Jon finds his way to the portrait gallery. This room used to frighten him even worse than Ned and Cat's bedroom, when he was small. All those stern Stark ancestors, looking down at him. But now he walks quickly past all of them, traveling through time until he reaches Sansa. 

She's staring at the portraits which were commissioned in the last ten years. Likenesses she can judge the accuracy of- her father, her mother, her older brother. 

She doesn't jump, this time, when he approaches. She doesn't even turn to look at him. She only says, "We're going to have to find space for Rickon."

He used to always be able to tell how Sansa felt, just from the way she spoke. Anybody could. The way her voice would become high-pitched with anger when she fought with Arya; the drama she used to read storybooks to her little brothers; the longing which would imbue her sighs about Joffrey Baratheon, or Waymar Royce, or whoever she'd set her sights on. But now she has such a strange, flat way of speaking. It's one of the many changes that has made her nearly unrecognizable to Jon. 

"You don't need to worry about that right now,"  he tells her. "We'll take care of it later. You're wearing yourself thin- when's the last time you slept?"

"I can't sleep," she says. And Jon knows this, because he can hear her, pacing through the house while he lies awake in bed all night. 

Sansa continues, "I wanted to thank you. For coming here. For helping me. I know I'm a nuisance, and you probably have better things to do. It's just... I didn't have anyone else to call."

"You're not a nuisance," Jon says. Sansa exhales in a way that he can tell means she doesn't believe him. He adds, "As long as you need me, I'm here."

He doesn't tell her that she's wrong, that he truly doesn't have anything better to do. After he'd been discharged- after they'd released him from the hospital- all Jon wanted to do was return home. But despite all the medals for valor he won in the war, he didn't have to courage to come north until he received the telephone call from Sansa.

It was the only time he heard her cry, since all of this began.  _You're such a crybaby,_ Arya used to jeer at her, and there was some truth to it. Sansa cried at the end of movies; she cried when her favorite dress was ruined; she cried the time that Theon showed them all the bird's nest which had fallen out of a tree after a storm.

But other than that single telephone call, when her voice broke as she delivered the news, Sansa hasn't shed a single tear since Jon returned home. Her eyes have remained dry, just as her hands have remained steady and her spine's remained straight. 

"There's a press conference-" Sansa begins to say, but she's cut off by the sound of a branch snapping outside. She and Jon both go very still and listen carefully as footsteps approach the house, crunching through the melting snow. Sansa reaches out and takes Jon's hand. Her fingers thread through his as she leads him toward the nearest window, and gestures to him to stay close to the wall, so they can listen without being seen. 

He understands that they should be quiet- he's a soldier, after all- but she presses a finger to his lips anyway.

It's Ned Stark's old associates and advisors. Jon recognizes their voices.

"Christ, I guess what they say is true." Cerwin, with his broad Bostonian way of speaking. "The Starks truly are cursed."

Maege Mormont replies, "You know that's nothing but nonsense used to sell papers-"

Karstark interrupts her. "How many funerals have we gone to in the past ten years? First Ned-"

"And they still don't know who it is who shot him, right?"

"Well, we all know it was the Lannisters," Manderly interjects.

"Yes, we _know_ that, but no one's behind bars."

"First Ned," Karstark continues. "Then the eldest, the mother, and the pregnant wife, all dead, in one night? A week before the election? That boy would've been governor, if he'd lived-"

"That boy would be in the White House now, if he'd lived."

"I guess we'll never know, though, because he  _didn't_ live. But all three of them, dying in one night like that-"

"It was a car crash!"

"Even if there wasn't foul play, you've got to admit, it's bloody bad luck. A curse, you see?"

"So what, this business with the youngest son is part of the curse too?"

"Exactly. Though I'd bet every penny I have that this wasn't just bad luck. A hunting accident? On Bolton property?" Cerwin scoffs.

"Careful now," Mormont says. "That's a dangerous accusation."

Glover speaks for the first time, with acidic derision. "The Starks aren't cursed. The Starks are  _dead._ "

"There's still the middle boy, and Lyanna's son," Manderly says.

"And the daughters," Mormont adds.

Glover spits. "A cripple and a bastard. The little girl's been gone for years now- she's likely dead, and we all know it. As for the oldest- she's a pretty thing, I'll admit, but she's no good for much else."

"My son Cley has his eye on Sansa," Cerwin says.

"Are you sure you'd let him marry her?" Karstark asks. "I've heard she's spoiled goods. Joffrey Baratheon didn't die a virgin, that's for sure."

They all laugh then, uproariously, but the sound is stolen by the wind as they drift off to a different part of the Winterfell grounds. 

In the portrait gallery, Sansa is still holding Jon's hand; she grips his fingers so tightly he thinks the bones might break. Jon doesn't know how to comfort her. He's not enough, he's not a Stark, he's not her family. He's the only person she could call, that's all. Someone with nowhere else to go, and nothing soothing to say. Still, he tries. "Sansa, you can't... you can't listen to them."

She reaches for him, and for a moment, Jon flinches, thinking she might hit him. But instead she buries her hand in his hair as she brings his face up to hers. She's kissing him. She's kissing him like they're teenagers again. But this time, she's in a black dress, not a white ballgown, and he's in a black uniform, not too-short tuxedo. They're sober. It's daylight. They no longer have the excuse of being young or foolish. Still, she's kissing him, and this time he doesn't pull away. 

He pulls her closer, advances on her until the backs of her legs hit a nearby table. He lifts her onto that dusty tabletop, and her legs part easily as she wraps her long legs around his waist. She kisses him like she's trying to eat him alive, and Jon is entirely willing to be devoured. It's been years since Jon's done this, and a part of him thought he'd forgotten how when Ygritte died. He didn't know that Sansa know how to do this sort of thing at all. Karstark's words echo through his mind-  _spoiled goods_. 

She palms him, and begins to undo his belt. Jon pulls back in surprise. When he breaks the kiss, Sansa emits a frustrated moan, and leans back in. Jon catches her by the jaw, holds her back and asks, "Sansa, are you sure?"

" _Yes,_ " she assures him. And then her only words are  _please_ and  _more_ and  _I need to feel it,_ whispers when her lips aren't pressed to his lips, or his cheek, or jaw. She falls back against the table, her red hair spilling out like a bloodstain. 

It's shorter than Jon would have liked, but he's too desperate to be proud right now. At least there's the small gratification of her heels digging into his back and her gasp, echoing about the room before he spills. Then he collapses onto her, keeps her pinned to the table while he lays his head down against her chest. He can feel her heartbeat surging. Her hands traces lazy circles circles against his back as the Stark ancestors stare down at them.

The last time Jon touched someone like this was with Ygritte, but there was never much kindness between him and Ygritte. They'd never had enough time to be tender. He can't remember the last time someone truly touched him with kindness, with nothing but good intentions, and he wonders when Sansa was last touched with kindness as well. 

Finally, she says, "Jon, you've got to let me up." When he's reluctant, she pushes at him, and then he acquiesces. He pulls himself up and hands her the handkerchief from his pocket. 

She swipes it between her legs in a businesslike way as she checks her wristwatch. Then, like nothing's happened, she says, "The press conference is in fifteen minutes. The newspapers need a statement."

Jon tucks his shirt back in and watches Sansa run her fingers through her hair and reapply her lipstick, using the window as a mirror. "How do I look?" she asks. "Presentable enough?"

"Perfect," he tells her.

She nods, and sets off, walking at a steady pace through the portrait gallery. Then she abruptly stops. Without turning back to face him, she says, "I'd like it if you were there. It would present a good image, if you were there by my side. Don't you think?"

"A good image," Jon repeats.

"Exactly. So we can show the world the Starks aren't dead." She starts walking again, and Jon moves to catch up with her. 


End file.
